No-one would ever know just how much he had longed to put a ball through Person’s face, to smash his skull to shards, to watch his body crumple to the ground. Gaise sighed and felt shame even now at the crude pleasure the thought gave him.
‘I am not so different from you, Father,’ he whispered.
He had longed for the day when, reaching Varlish majority at twenty-one, he would be free of the Moidart’s malign influence. Free to know happiness. Free to live his life as he chose. Yet here he was, a year later, in a rented house, heavy of heart and filled with an indescribable loneliness.
Gaise knew that Mulgrave longed to be free of this war. He knew also that only the man’s love for him held him here. If I were truly his friend, Gaise thought, I would let him go. I would wish him well, and be happy that he was free of this madness.
For madness it was. Gaise knew that now. Scores of thousands had died, their blood soaking into the earth, their cries unheard or unheeded. And for what? The vanity of a king, and the ambitions of a few nobles. Gaise tried to shake himself clear of such treasonous thoughts. Rising from his desk he walked to the leaded window, pushing it open to allow the cold night air to seep into the firelit room. From here he could see the silhouetted line of the western hills. Beyond them was the army of Luden Macks. There, as here, the soldiers would be sheltering against the winter night, keeping their weapons clean, giving prayers of thanks for the truce that would see them alive for a few more weeks. They would be drinking and whoring. Living for the day.
Some distance away Gaise could see two men talking. They were dressed in dark clothes. They glanced up, saw him, and moved away into the shadows. Three soldiers of the Watch came into view. Gaise recognized Taybard Jaekel. His mood lifted. He had been tempted to reject Jaekel when first he had tried to enlist. Gaise remembered him as one of three young men who attacked a highland lad back in Old Hills. It was a cowardly assault, and only the arrival of Gaise and Mulgrave had prevented the highlander being knifed while held.
Gaise had been sitting at the recruitment desk when Jaekel stepped forward. ‘I know you,’ he said, coldly.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jaekel. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘How so?’
‘You prevented me from committing an act I would have regretted all my life.’
‘What happened to that highland lad? Ring, wasn’t it?’
‘Kaelin Ring, sir. He went north.’
‘Is he still your enemy?’
‘No, sir. He is my friend.’
‘Good enough. Make your mark.’
Gaise smiled at the memory. Taybard Jaekel had proved an exemplary soldier, cool under fire, and utterly reliable. He was also the finest shot with a musket Gaise had ever seen. In standing competition he was merely excellent, but in the field his talents were beyond extraordinary. Mulgrave – who was himself a marksman of quality – called it deflection targeting. This involved shooting at a point ahead of a moving target so that ball and victim arrived at the same place at the same time. The judgement involved had to be instant and instinctive.
Gaise wondered if Jaekel still had the golden musket ball he had won. Probably not, he thought. Soldiers tended to spend what they had as soon as they received their pay. A golden musket ball, in a sphere of silver wire, would be worth more than two months’ wages.
The three soldiers moved out of sight. Once more Gaise Macon felt alone. Mulgrave was probably with Ermal Standfast, enjoying a pleasant tisane by a roaring fire. Alterith Shaddler would be asleep in his bed, at the school house in Old Hills. And the Moidart? The man’s hawklike features flashed into Gaise’s mind. Probably torturing some poor soul deep in the dungeons of Eldacre.
Gaise chided himself for an unworthy thought. The Moidart was probably also asleep. To Gaise’s recollection the Moidart had only personally tortured one man to death, many years ago after a failed assassination attempt. Gaise could still remember the man’s screams.